


systematic

by mharris



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen, Newt being Domestic, gift giving anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-01
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-04-16 22:21:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14174610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mharris/pseuds/mharris
Summary: Newt gives Shadwell a gift and then promptly Worries About It for a week.





	systematic

   "I got you a present."

   Shadwell glared up at Newt over his morning porridge as Newt set down a box before him.

   "The newspapers, boy?" he asked.

   "No, those aren't the— oh, you mean— yes, here they are."

   Newt set down the small stack of newspapers that Shadwell still spent his time combing through. He no longer looked for signs of the Unusual (He did actually, but did nothing more than to dismiss them as complete garbage these days.), but after several decades of building and fine tuning a habit, it was hard to quit. Newt supplied Shadwell with the newspapers, and today, a boxed model airplane.

   "What is it?" Shadwell said, staring at it as if expecting it to explode.

   "It's uh— well," Newt stumbled a bit. You could very well see what it was, it said right on the box with a picture of the Douglass C-54 Skymaster right next to it. He hadn't bothered to wrap it, there shouldn't have been confusion about its contents. Newt shrugged, "A model airplane. I used to do loads of them as a kid. Something real nice about seeing something complete because of your own efforts. I thought that, well, you might be looking for something to pass your time, since, you know, er—"

   Newt waved his hand around at the new surroundings of Shadwell and Madam Tracy's kitchen. The Witchfinder Army had been dissolved, on account that Witchfinder Sergeant Shadwell had defeated the Evil One himself. Retirement, or whatever it was that happened to you when your entire sense of being and purpose in life had ended, wasn't suiting Shadwell all that well. Madam Tracy kept him busy with the laundry and the fixing that needed to be done around the house and she had her mind of a small garden out in the back, but Shadwell had done all of these things with a perfunctory duty of necessity. Upon seeing the model on a rack while doing the usual shopping, Newt brightened immediately, knowing that all Shadwell needed was a hobby.

   But now standing before him in the small kitchen, Shadwell staring unblinking at the box, and Madam Tracy staring at Shadwell, Newt felt that maybe not only had he missed the mark with this gift, but he had missed it so badly that it had somehow managed to hit another, completely different mark, and insult Shadwell in his own home.

   "Well?" Madam Tracy said to Shadwell, hand on her hip, "Are you going to thank the boy?"

   Shadwell grunted, which in the language of Shadwell could have been a thanks. (It could have also been a dismissal, or a threat, or even a comment about the weight of capitalism on a growing lower class.) Newt nodded once, and Shadwell immediately buried himself behind an open paper.

-

   It went like this: every other day, Newt would show up to the little bungalow that Madam Tracy and Shadwell shared with a bag of groceries and a stack of papers. Newt always showed up right at the end of breakfast, and Madam Tracy would make him a cup of tea and offer whatever muffins or oatmeal or toast that might be left. Shadwell would leave the table to go to a back room that Madam Tracy humorously referred to as his 'office,' leaving Newt and Madam Tracy to chat and catch up. Newt would leave with a new list of groceries or odds and ends that could not be found at the closest corner store, and Madam Tracy's love to be passed on to Anathema.

   Newt wasn't sure when or how these two people, who should, by all accounts, have been passing figures in his life, became so hard and fast important to him and his routine. But they had, and Newt would always leave feeling a bit like he had skipped his youth and gone straight to old gaffer gossiping over tea. He supposed he didn't mind it, it got him out of the house at least.

   When Newt returned two days later, the box was still on the table. A sharp panic rose at the sight of it undisturbed, but he said nothing about it, lest he do further insult to injury. It just sat there, an unwelcome visitor to their routines. Shadwell took his usual papers and left the table, and Madam Tracy offered a cup of tea. Yesterday the neighbors two doors down were shouting in their front yard again, could he imagine? Newt shook his head and tried to ignore the box.

   The scene was the same when Newt returned again. The box, still on the table. It had been shifted a few inches, but a salt shaker stood against it, so it could have been brushed aside. Newt worried at it silently after Shadwell had departed for the back room. And worried at it a little more physically, by biting his own lip and staring intently at it as Madam Tracy gave him a cup of tea and updated him on the garden she was finally putting together.

   On his third visit, Newt began to wonder if Shadwell were playing some sort of psychological warfare with him. Was this a metaphor for what it was doing to Shadwell? Shadwell wasn't the type. Newt didn't think Shadwell had the subversiveness necessary for a move like that. But then why was it still sitting here, in the exact same place Newt himself had set it? What could be the purpose behind this? What was Newt supposed to take from this? Was it a threat? Was it a reminder to Newt not to ever attempt to get Shadwell another present? Should Newt just grab the thing and run, apologize for the outburst later? Newt didn't hear a word about the neighbor's daughter that Madam Tracy had seen the other day. The presence of the box was driving him into silent madness, the device of torment unacknowledged.

   A week after setting the box down in its fateful spot, Newt broke. The box had definitely been moved, a little closer to the center of the table this time. It had been placed there on purpose. The idea that this was a present that was being left, disregarded, on the table, forgotten and dismissed, was now and idea that was completely out of the question. The box was in a prime spot for viewing, no matter where you sat at the round table.

   Newt finally gave in and asked Madam Tracy about it in a hushed tone as she handed him his tea. Madam Tracy smiled at him, and pat his hand, and took a sip of her own tea. 

   "He leaves the box on the table so he can look at it while he eats, love." she said.

   Newt sat up, having leaned forward to whisper dramatically. He looked at Madam Tracy as if she had suggested it were made of gold instead plastic and cardboard, with stickers.

   "Wh-what?" Newt asked.

   Madam Tracy indicated toward the box with her cup, "That little airplane you gave him has been the sole object of his attention these past few days. He's been reading up on old airplanes, did you know? He likes to know how the real things were made, thinks it will help him put the little plastic pieces together. He'll take walks around the neighborhood, he'll read his books, he'll go over each little piece all before he puts something new on the model. Suffice it to say, this has been taking forever, but I daresay he just loves the thing."

   Newt sat back in his chair, softly, his mouth hanging open. "Oh," was all that came out.

   "This little project was exactly what he needed." Madam Tracy said, lifting her cup to her lips. "Thank you."

   Newt nodded, still a little stunned at the complete reversal of the truth from his ideas. That he had actually managed to do something he set out to do intentionally was a novel feeling for him. What he had been told was so much better than he could have ever dreamed. 

   "Can I see it then?" he asked, suddenly.

   Madam Tracy shook her head with a smile on her face. "I haven't even gotten to see it yet. He's very protective. I'm sure we will eventually, though."

   Newt left that day with a new list of groceries, and a lighter heart. He wouldn't be allowed to see the creation he'd handed over to Shadwell, not yet. But if he had walked into that back room, he would have seen Shadwell, hunched over a table, small paintbrush in hand and tongue between his teeth, painstakingly putting together an airplane with the same amount of skill and heart as the models of Newt's youth.


End file.
